Number No Longer in Use
by MissAntheaAdler
Summary: John sends two texts the week before the anniversary of the day he met Sherlock, even though he believes Sherlock to be dead. Post-Reichenbach. Reunion-fic.


Sherlock? -JW  
>[number no longer in use]<p>

I loved-I love you.-JW  
>[number no longer in use]<p>

"John tried texting you yesterday. Second time this week. You do need to tell him, you know." Mycroft walked into Sherlock's two room flat to find him laying on the couch with fingertips pressed together.

"It's better for him to go on thinking I'm dead. It's safer. He'll be hurt to much to find out I've lied to him."

"No, it really isn't better for the man to believe you dead. Moriarty is dead. We have Moran in custody. He can be safe around you now."

"Well, maybe _I_ don't want to have to deal with John. Maybe it would hurt _me_ to much. And besides, no one is ever safe around me." Sherlock added the last part with a whisper.

"Maybe that doesn't matter, Sherlock. He thinks that you're dead. Three years Sherlock, it's been three years. Think of John." Mycroft scolded softly.

"I only ever think of John. John was the reason that all of this had to happen in the first place. John was the reason I did everything. I think about John everyday."

"Do you want to know what the text he sent said?"

"Not particularly, Mycroft. Nor do I want to know how you came to be in possession of that information."

Mycroft chose to ignore the last comment his little brother had made and turned to leave. "He said 'I love you', Sherlock. Present tense." And with that Sherlock Holmes stood up, crossed the room in three easy strides, and shut the door in his brother's face.

* * *

><p>John Watson buried his head in his hands. He hadn't texted Sherlock in almost five months, and he had no idea why he had felt the need to do so twice in one week. Well, he did have some idea. It was January 23, six days until the date they had met, all those years ago. Six days until the date he had seen Mike Stamford in the park. Six days until the date he had first spoken to Sherlock Holmes. And he hated it. He hated the space the detective had filled in his life, and the void he had left behind on the rooftop of Bart's. He hated Sherlock. He hated the world.<p>

John Watson was not a stupid man. He knew that there was absolutely no way that Sherlock could be alive. Yet he held onto hope. Every time he saw a mess of curly black hair, every time a tall man in a blue trench coat walked past. Every time he heard police sirens. Any time he heard someone say they were bored. John Watson held onto hope. The slim chance that the great Sherlock Holmes had performed one last magic trick.

His life had been spiraling out of control since the moment he saw Sherlock on that roof. A steady decline of hygiene, sobriety, and sanity. John before Sherlock was a hardened soldier. John with Sherlock was a doctor with a friend. John after Sherlock was a broken man.

"John, open the door." John recognized the voice that had woken him from sleep on his armchair as Mycroft's. He hadn't heard Mycroft's voice in almost a year, though he suspected the man might have been keeping tabs on him.

"Wha' d'you want," John slurred drunkenly. It was three days until the date he had met Sherlock. Mycroft walked in, though John distinctly remembered having locked the door the previous night.

"I just wanted to see how you were holding up." Mycroft said, though John thought he sounded far more chipper than he should at -John looked at the clock- 1:30 in the afternoon.

"How do you think I'm holding up?" John snapped at Mycroft.

"I see. Well, I suppose you would like me to leave, then?"

"Yes."

* * *

><p>Three days later, John finds a single red rose taped to his door.<p>

* * *

><p>"I can't do it, Mycroft."<p>

"No backing out now, Sherlock"

"But what if-"

"No, you brought this on yourself. You have to deal with the consequences."

* * *

><p>John heard a knocking at his door and wondered who it was. No body ever came to see him anymore, and Mrs Hudson never knocked. He got up and peered through the peep hole, seeing nothing he opened the door. When John glanced up from his own feet, which he'd been staring at when he opened the door, he saw a very familiar man.<p>

"Sh-Sherlock?" John stammered.

"Hello, John," the easily recognizable voice of Sherlock Holmes responded. John stared, shakily, at the man who occupied his door frame.

"Is it really you?"

"It's really me." Upon hearing conformation of the Sherlock's identity, John punched him in the face, neatly missing his nose and teeth. Sherlock straightened up and put a hand to the cut on his cheek and checking for the blood e already knew was there.

"Yes, well, I suppose I deserved that." Sherlock said looking at John, making sure another blow wasn't coming. Instead of another punch, Sherlock got something far harder for him to deal with.

John hugged Sherlock and buried his face in his chest. The shorter man's body was wracked with sobs as he clutched at the collar of Sherlock's big woollen coat.

"You bastard. You complete and total bastard. Do you have any idea- Do you even- Why did- I missed you so much." John's voice came out scratchy amidst hitched breathing.

"I know. I know and I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, John Watson. I know I'll have to do a lot of explaining in the weeks to come, but can I just say one thing?"

"What?" John snapped his head up, puffy read eyes glistening.

"I loved- I love you, too." Sherlock said, holding back tears of his own.


End file.
